I am standing on the dunes,
By some charm that must be June's,
When the magic of her hand
Lays a sea-spell on the land.
And the old enchantment falls
On the blue-gray orchard walls
And the purple high-top boles,
While the orange orioles
Flame and whistle through the green
Of that paradisal scene.
Strolling idly for an hour
Where the elder is in flower,
I can hear the bob-white call
Down beyond the pasture wall.
Musing in the scented heat,
Where the bayberry is sweet,
I can see the shadows run
Up the cliff-side in the sun.
Or I cross the bridge and reach
The mossers' houses on the beach,